


Save me

by dontcallmekoko



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Music, Depression, Falling In Love, Healing, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Acceptance, Slow Burn, Songwriting, YouTube
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8533945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontcallmekoko/pseuds/dontcallmekoko
Summary: Teikou Records' most recently signed artist, Takao Kazunari, has gone MIA with his debut album set to release in just a few months. Desperate times call for desperate measures and the company sends their habitually punctual, no-nonsense A&R Coordinator, Midorima Shintarou, to oversee the completion of the project.This story is about learning self-love. About the importance of empathy over pity.About the many ways one can be saved.





	1. track 1 - intro

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome and thanks for giving this story a chance! I've chosen not to use Archive warnings so let me be clear right from the beginning:
> 
> Trigger warnings apply for **dubious consent, abusive language, panic attacks, and rape.** I'll also reiterate any warnings before their respective chapters.
> 
> And just to clarify, none of the horrible warnings concern MidoTaka.
> 
> I'm trying a few new things with my writing in this story so I hope you enjoy!  
> (...And I apologize in advance in case I fuck up lol.)

"This is _very_ pink."

"I thought you'd seen my videos?"

"I have! I definitely have but seeing the set in person is... something else."

"Well, it's important to keep up an image," Satsuki replies, laughing. She shrugs off the well-worn, grey hoodie she's had on all day to reveal a light, salmon pink sleeveless chiffon top; a stark contrast to her normally very casual wardrobe consisting mainly of leggings and sweaters. The blouse she's been hiding is a boat neck accompanied by a modest mesh overlay that leads into more of a sweetheart cut right above the chest. It's a top that would look good on anyone but looks stunning on Satsuki due to the way it accentuates her (more than) ample bust. She's opted to wear a pair of simple black leggings with the fashionable top because with live streams comfort always wins out over style. Sitting down at her boudoir, she observes her face from several angles before deciding she needs to change her lip color.

As Momoi frets over which exact shade of pink to choose (a tie between Crush and Gumball) Kazunari looks over the studio again. Well, it probably isn't entirely accurate to call it that. It's a familiar set-up for vloggers—a cutely decorated couch in front of a coffee table (a rather large one as it houses a fair amount of the filming equipment) and an unoffending wallpaper plastered with thematically appropriate posters and art. There's also a  _very_ fluffy-looking rug at the foot of the couch that has Kazunari wondering if it would be considered endearing or just weird to take his shoes off in the middle of a live stream. While it is a typical layout, he likes it. It feels... homey. The decor of the set is markedly different, however, from the rest of esteemed Youtuber Momoi Satsuki's apartment—she doesn't seem to actually like pink as much as her online persona would indicate. Kazunari tries to keep thinking about that but, inevitably, his anxiety wins out. His heartbeat speeds up, he starts breathing harder, and he can even feel a bit of a cold sweat coming on.

Shit, this is bad.

He closes his eyes and tries to control his breathing using the method his therapist taught him. He takes in a deep breath and reminds himself,

 

_This will be fine._

 

Exhale.

 

_I can trust Momoi. She's friends with everyone. We've already been getting along great._

 

Deep inhale.

 

_The interview portion will be fine._

 

Steady exhale.

 

_Talking about it **will be fine.**_

 

_And it's not too late to change my mind._

 

_Crap._

 

_Shouldn't have thought that._

  

...Maybe he _should_ change his mind.

It's one thing to deal with everything internally and it's another for your friends to know but... for his fans to know, too?

For thousands of strangers?

Does... does it really make sense to do this?

 

Kazunari opens his eyes, unsure of when exactly he closed them. He must have been deeper in thought than he'd realized because instead of standing, he's finally sitting on the couch. Momoi is sitting next to him, combing her fingers through her hair for what looks to be the last time and stretching her face muscles in preparation for the camera. As funny as it looks, Kazunari wonders if he should do the same. Then he remembers that what he actually needs to do is ask Momoi if they can change the direction of the interview segment after all. He's about to open his mouth to ask but just happens to look up first.

 

And in that moment, he sees Shintarou.

 

He's hovering by Momoi's tech guy, almost like he's trying to learn the poor sap's job through scrutiny alone in case he's not up to his own impossible standards. As naturally as if Kazunari had called his name, he looks back at him. When their eyes meet, Shintarou's shoulders relax and he offers him a chaste smile, one of encouragement.

 

And Takao can swear that's admiration in his eyes.

 

He inhales deeply.

 

_No. Come on._

 

Exhales.

 

_I can handle this._

 

Stretches his face.

 

_I can handle anything._


	2. track 2 - rude awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm... artistic license on YouTube UI? lol please ignore the comment usernames from now until the end of this story, I kind of didn't care enough to try with them lol

four months earlier

 

 _Loud, thumping bass_  
_An overbearing, chemical smell_  
_Nausea, movement_  
_Hands_

 

* * *

 

 

 **rapgawd**  
guys, i know no one wants to ask this but WHERE IS TAKAO-KUN?? i'm seriously worried over here!!

 **princesspoindexter**  
oh my god, YES i feel like everyone is just pretending it’s normal that he hasn’t uploaded anything in like a year??

 **vvnex6**  
+princesspoindexter maybe he quit. he hasn’t tweeted in a long time either

 **javafava**  
he’s posted to Instagram! the last post *was* last year tho.. and the last few were just shots of the city with like no captions…

 **princesspoindexter**  
+vvnex6 but i thought he got signed right? was that just a rumor?

 **vvnex6**  
+princesspoindexter yea it was a rumor. but maybe he’s been working this whole time

 **rapgawd**  
+princesspoindexter ohh yeah, he got signed! totally forgot about that lol

 **javafava  
       ** ppl if we finally get a studio album out of this dry spell, its totally worth it

 

 

* * *

Kazunari sniffles once as the show on his television plays its laugh track. The temperature outside has reached a point low enough that it seeps into his apartment, making it terribly cold, and it's finally getting to him. Though he knows he should turn on the heater, that would require getting up and interrupting his productive, hours-long sitcom and cigarettes marathon. There is something almost soothing about spacing out, allowing his mind to submit to the whims and calculations of the scheduled programming on display and letting his real-life problems drown in noise and color. He doesn’t know when he last got up. When did he last eat? Or take a piss?

…Whatever. He decides to continue ignoring the cold and light a new cig instead of turning the heat on.

Except… when he reaches into his last box, he finds that it’s empty.

Finally snapping out of the endless loop of smoking he’s been caught in all day, the laugh track plays again almost like it’s punctuating _this_ moment. Like hell this is funny, now he’s gotta get up and walk down to the goddamn corner store. Takao groans and forces himself to his feet.

_Maybe this is a good thing. I haven’t been outside in a couple days anyway._

He begins the trek through the obstacle course that is his apartment’s living and dining area. He steps over a couple of pizza boxes, carryout containers, convenience store bento boxes, ramen cups, and a few empty beer bottles and cigarette butts. Kazunari faintly thinks to himself that he really ought to get around to cleaning soon, maybe sometime this week… if he can find the energy for it. He at _least_ has to try to do the kitchen. And the bathroom. His life would be so much easier if he still felt embarrassed about the state of things—at least then, he’d find himself speed-cleaning when he invites a guest over but… he truly can’t bring himself to care these days. Besides, the only people who come over are the landlord on occasion (which—fuck that guy) and his boyfriend, who only seems to care when he’s in the mood for confrontation.

Retrieving his house keys up from on top of the refrigerator, Kazunari finds himself wondering if ‘boyfriend’ is even the right word for him. They barely keep in touch when they’re not in the same room and when he visits, the two of them head straight to the bedroom and he usually leaves first thing in the morning.

_...No, boyfriend is the right word. The way he acts all upset and interrogative when I’m texting in front of him is proof enough of that._

As he puts on his pair of sneakers, his phone goes off.

 

Kei

coming over. what do you want to eat?

 

Kazunari raises an eyebrow at the question. It’s very rare that they do anything other than fuck or fight these days. He pockets his phone to answer later, when he’s had some time to think about what he wants. The last time Kei was over, the fight had been _pretty_ bad. He’s probably trying to make amends… and it'll work, too, because the food from the restaurant Kei works at is _phenomenal._

 

♪

 

Shintarou checks the time on his wristwatch before ascending the stairs of the target’s apartment building. He… _thinks_ this is an appropriate time of day to pay a visit. He sometimes finds himself painfully out of sync with the musicians he often finds himself working with. The first time he’d had to stop by an artist’s home, it had been 10 AM—a perfectly reasonable time of day to discuss work-related issues for an A &R coordinator, but “an ungodly, unforgivable hour” by the artist’s standards. They’d nearly had to reschedule, she was _that_ offended.

As he walks up the stairs of to the second floor, he has a nagging feeling that this is going to be one of _those_ assignments. The kind of assignment that has him rolling his eyes, gritting his teeth, losing sleep, pining for med school, regretting taking Akashi’s job offer…

Regardless of any baseless, foreboding feelings, however, Shintarou double checks that this is the correct address on his phone (it is) and knocks on the door of apartment number 10. When there’s no answer, Shintarou knocks again. When the silence continues on without any sign of life on the other side, he begins to worry.

This… really isn’t conducive to ignoring that foreboding feeling.

The reason he is here is because Teikou Records’ most recently signed-on artist, one Takao Kazunari, hasn’t responded to any e-mails, calls, or text messages in just over a month. The last the label had heard from him, he’d only had two demo songs prepared instead of the five they had requested and he’d admitted to “struggling with his creative process.” Typically, this sort of thing is delegated to someone lower down the ladder but, for some reason, Akashi specifically requested that Shintarou handle it.

 

So here he is.

Handling it.

…Hopefully.

He knocks again.

 

Just when Shintarou starts to wonder if their “fresh-faced newcomer” (to quote Kise) has split town to avoid this exact situation, someone finally answers the door.

“Who is it?”

The voice _is_ masculine, so that’s a good sign. Shintarou straightens up a bit, relieved to finally get started.

“Midorima Shintarou. I am the head A&R coordinator for Teikou Records. I’m here to discuss the status of your album, Takao-san.”

The person on the other side is quiet for some time. Shintarou is about to say more, momentarily worried Takao Kazunari really _doesn’t_ live here anymore, when the door unlocks. The door opens slowly to reveal an exhausted-looking young man, significantly below his natural line of sight. Shintarou takes in his dark disheveled hair, the beat-up hoodie he wears, the faint, dark circles under his eyes, and the cloying stench of cigarette smoke. The weak, tired look in his eyes is contrasted heavily by their color: a bright silver.

…Hardly what he would call ‘fresh-faced.’

Shintarou supposes he can see how that may have been true at some point, but whenever that was, Takao Kazunari is far away from that now. By looking at him, it certainly isn’t difficult to imagine he really is going through a writer’s block.

“You are Takao Kazunari-san, are you not?”

“Yeah,” the man answers. Shintarou can practically hear a shrug in his voice.

“May I come in?”

“Can’t we talk out here?” Takao asks, scratching his head and scrunching his brow. His hair becomes even messier as he does. “I was about to head out for some smokes.”

“I am afraid that will have to wait. What I’m here to discuss with you is urgent.”

_I see he doesn’t like that._

Takao’s entire face scrunches up now in irritation, apparently at the news of being deprived of nicotine any longer, but the annoyed look dissipates after a second, leaving impassive apathy in its wake.

“Fine…” Takao backs up, allowing his unexpected guest enough room to enter. “Excuse the mess, I wasn’t expecting visitors…”

“No, please pardon the intru…sion,” Shintarou _thinks_ he says, as a matter of courtesy, but he can’t be sure. As soon as his eyes focus in on his surroundings, his jaw almost drops.

 _The-the—the_ state of things _—there’s no way on_ earth _he ever cleans up for visitors. If he ever has any! Dear god…_

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” Takao comments, half-heartedly nudging a few articles of trash out of the immediate way. “We can sit on the couch.”

Shintarou nods stiffly. He moves across the room carefully, almost delicately as he sidesteps all sorts of garbage. His face has managed to stay mostly unaffected but now he struggles to keep his composure when he sees Takao roughly brushing crumbs off of the couch they’re about to sit on, sending them flying everywhere. A part of him remembers that he should perhaps be a bit more sympathetic towards someone whose depression is obviously severe enough that it is reflected in his surroundings, but Takao Kazunari shows seemingly no signs of embarrassment—so as much as he wishes he could be more understanding, Shintarou cannot help feeling disgusted. The obsessively cleanly, ultra-hygienic, former medical student is so disgusted, he’s on the verge of outrage.

 

But above all else, he is a professional. He takes a seat down next to his artist. Takao speaks first.

 

“I know… I know I haven’t been respondi—“

“I’m not here about that,” Shintarou says, shaking his head in an attempt to recalibrate. Part of him is slightly offended that he hasn’t been offered anything to drink, but his sense of propriety is outweighed by the rest of sensibilities screaming out in relief that he wasn’t. Takao looks a bit confused by his rebuff and he continues. “Teikou signed you on last August. I am sure you remember the general timeline of your debut.”

Takao looks pathetic at this point, already wearing the expression of a child being scolded. “Yes.”

God damn Akashi. God damn him.

Shintarou had initially taken this assignment in stride, finding it to be an interesting change of pace from his usual work and a valuable opportunity to familiarize himself with his department and this relatively new job. But now that he’s sitting in this pigsty, staring down this pouting musician—now he that he can see the ashtray on the coffee table positively stuffed to the brim with cigarette butts—he realizes Akashi fucked him.

 

“Can you relay it to me?”

 

Takao bites his bottom lip and glances away. “Demos done by December. Album done by May.”

 

“Exactly.” Shintarou shifts in his seat, uncomfortable not by way of the conversation or even the quality of the couch cushion, but just because he cannot stop thinking about how dirty the couch must be and how he likes this suit far too much to be mistreating it in this way. “As I am sure you are aware, we are _very_ behind schedule. In December, you only had two demo tracks for us and we have not heard from you or seen you come by the studio since then.” Shintarou adjusts his glasses before adding, “We made sure to let you know when you signed your contract, Takao-san, that if you felt yourself struggling to meet your deadlines for any reason, you have a myriad of resources at Teikou. We have a team of singing coaches, songwriters, producers—from what was relayed to me, you insisted you wouldn’t need them but also promised you would seek help if necessary. Much of our attempts to reestablish contact with you have been to offer these very resources.”

“S-sorry…”

“I’m not here for apologies.”

“Right, of course. I was—”

“I’m not here for explanations or excuses either.” Shintarou turns on his sternest face. “Takao-san, you signed a contract. Understand that while this is art for you, this is a _business_ for _us_. I am not here to grant you an extension, I am here to ensure that we get the product we invested in—and that is your album. In May.”

Takao’s eyes go wide with shock. “M-M-May?”

Shintarou nods.

“Y-you guys want me to come up with a-a _whole album_ in three months?!”

“We did not want _that_ , no—which is why we originally gave you ten months for this project. Or don’t you remember?”

Takao Kazunari’s look of incredulity gave way to something akin to anger at Shintarou’s rhetorical question. It did not affect him, though, and soon enough Takao was back to looking pitiful.

 

“I…I’m sorry, I-I really don’t… I don’t think I can do that,” he says, voice small.

 

 _As if he has a choice_ , Shintarou thinks to himself.

 

“As I said, I am here to ensure that you do.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

Shintarou sighs and can’t help looking around the living room once more, lamenting his impending predicament.

 

“Teikou Records has a rather unorthodox practice for struggling artists under a strict deadline. It’s a live-in program.”

 

Takao’s brow scrunched up, confused again. “A… what?”

 

“It’s simple. Someone from the label moves in with a musician until their project is complete. Typically, we have someone from our artist relations department do this sort of thing but,” Shintarou pauses for greater effect, hopefully demonstrating how much of an inconvenience this all is. “Because this situation has even less time than usual and because you have decided to dodge the company’s check-ins, I will be overseeing you personally.”

 

Takao stares with his eyes wide and mouth slightly parted.

Completely stunned.

 

“Are you for real?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is… is that what the label said?”

 

Adjusting his glasses again, Shintarou says, “I work directly under the president of Teikou Records himself. I can unequivocally guarantee that this is a direct order from the label.”

 

Takao looks away and stares at the floor for a long moment.

This is perfectly within the company’s rights as this program is mentioned in the contract Takao Kazunari signed. Whether it’s immoral or an invasion of privacy is irrelevant; Takao Kazunari is obligated to comply and deliver. Shintarou is already prepared for anything he might say.

Well, he isn’t ready for _anything_ he might say.

 

“Hm.” Takao stands up. “Make yourself at home. Couch is a pull-out.”

 

“I—“ _Wait, what?_ “W-what?”

Takao pats the pocket of his sweatpants lazily, apparently looking for something. “Oh,” he mumbles to himself. “Right, have to _get_ smokes.”

“Wait. Takao-san, I don’t think you’re—”

“Just Takao’s fine.”

“Takao, then. Are you—are you sure you understood what I said to you?”

“Yeah.” Takao suddenly stares Shintarou right in the eyes with a look that he can’t quite place, but that is far more intense than any other expression he’s made since this conversation began. “I’m late on my shit so now I need a babysitter.”

_…Alright. Yes, that is pretty much it._

“And you have… no objections to the living arrangement.”

Takao breaks eye contact again, whipping his head in such a way that his hair covers his expression. He shrugs, pulling the hood of his sweater over his head. “It doesn’t matter how I feel about it, I probably gave you permission to do this in somewhere in my contract, right? ‘S not like I read the whole thing.” He then mumbles something to himself that Shintarou misses.

“Al…right then.” Shintarou is shocked that _he’s_ the one leaving this discussion jarred. While he’s never participated in Teikou’s live-in program himself before now, he has heard many stories. And this moment right here, informing the artist that they will be living with a record executive breathing down their neck up until they finish their creative project, is usually met with… some _pushback_ to put it lightly. A few times it has even resulted in artists terminating their contract. “I’ll need a spare set of keys,” Shintarou says, standing up. The fact that Takao is so… _accepting_ of this drastic solution… it’s throwing him off. He can barely remember if he has anything left to say.

“Sure. I can get some copies made this week.”

“You can give them to me once you come back from buying your... ‘smokes.’ I’m moving in tonight.” Shintarou reads a string of numbers from his phone. “Is this still your phone number?”

Takao nods, looking a little annoyed. “Ah.” His eyebrows raise as if he remembered something. “Look, I know you’re staying here and everything now, but you can’t move in tonight.”

Shintarou’s eyes narrow. _Here we go._ “And why not?”

“My boyfriend’s coming over.”

Shintarou is a little… surprised to hear that Takao is dating a man, but even more that he is so open about it as to inform a stranger. And a stranger from his work, no less. Still, he feels like Kise may have alluded to this bit of information back in December. “And?”

“Well, I’ll have to explain this whole situation to him.” Shintarou keeps glaring, unconvinced.  Takao sighs then.

 

“Seriously? I need to spell out what me and my boyfriend are gonna be doing tonight?”

 

Then he understands his meaning.

 

“Oh.”

 

 _Oh_ , he says.

How embarrassing.

 

“Still, I—” Shintarou says, fumbling a bit. “The program is—”

“You must have somewhere you can stay for the night, right? It’s not like I knew you were coming over and I had, y’know… prior engagements.”

Shintarou certainly does have somewhere he can stay for the night—his own apartment. His beautiful, pristine apartment with a working heater (it is absolutely _freezing_ in here) and a perfectly made, California king size bed. The idea of returning home one last time to give a proper goodbye to his personal heaven before residing in actual hell for three solid months is definitely tempting. Still… this feels an awful lot like a ploy. Get him out of the house, go back to ignoring their calls, move elsewhere.

And Akashi would _not_ like that.

The distrust he’s feeling is evident on his face and Takao’s eyes go from apathetic to… something else. Something a little cheerful, actually.

“Relax, I’ll let you back in. It’s the label’s orders, right?”

“It is,” Shintarou states firmly.

“Then come by tomorrow. I’ll be here. It’s not like I could possibly take you guys on in court, anyway.” The two of them traverse the trash-leaden landscape back to the front door. When Shintarou thinks Takao is reaching for the door, he rubs his other arm instead and glances to the side, pensive. “I… I know it may not s-seem like it, but…” Shintarou nearly has to lean in to hear him, he’s speaking at such a low volume. “I really want to get it done, too. I…” There’s a flash of what looks like anguish in his eyes for a moment but it’s gone before Shintarou can be sure he really saw it. Takao looks him in the eyes again. “I’ll be good.”

 

Takao smirks then, the closest thing Shintarou has seen to a smile since meeting him. And then he _chuckles_ as he turns to reach for the door.

 

“Probably,” he remarks as he opens the door, a playful lilt in his voice.

 

Shintarou is about to comment on the last thing he said (he does _not_ want to end things on a joke, this is a _serious_ matter) but is startled—there’s a man right there in the doorway. He’s quite tall, actually somewhat close to his _own_ height, dressed in all black, in what appears to be a waiter’s uniform. The formal dress shirt he wears is fitted and thus does little to obscure the outline of his frame; in other words, it’s evident that he exercises regularly. An unfortunate combination, Shintarou notes, with the air of menace that accompanies him. He reminds Shintarou of the kind of men you keep your distance from at a bar because they just give off this… _feeling_ that they’re looking for a fight. Realizing that this somewhat intimidating man must be the boyfriend Takao mentioned, he gives him a polite nod before moving past him and turning to say goodbye to his new roommate.

“I’ll be in touch.”

The look on Takao’s face has made a clear turn from the smirk with a hint of playfulness to it to something tinged with concern.

“Yeah,” he says, now retreating back inside as the man walks through the door.

As the door closes behind him, Shintarou can clearly hear the other man say, “ _Who the hell was that?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I no longer live in the States and my internet access is... limited, let's say that. That being said, I'm gonna try real, real hard to update my stories and I've been on a serious roll with this one lately. Hope you enjoyed this chapter 'cause the next one gets dark.


	3. track 3 - toxic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek into Takao's relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter warning: dubious consent leading to noncon; physical abuse**  
>  By my personal standards, it isn't terribly graphic, but that might not be the case for others. And I think now is as good a time as any to address the role that abuse is likely going to play in this story.
> 
> This story is mainly about surviving abuse but, because Takao is currently in an abusive relationship, there will be depictions of abuse itself happening. I don't plan on writing any of it in a gratuitous manner, so hopefully that'll ease some fears people might have. 
> 
> On the other hand, however, I'm trying to keep this story true to life from the survivor's perspective--and that means that while there will eventually be a lot of healing in this story, there will not be a whole lot of justice.
> 
> So if that's not something you want to read about, I totally get it. Just means this ain't the fic for you. I thought I'd knock that warning out of the way early on so no one feels unsatisfied that the story doesn't end with Takao's abuser in handcuffs. 
> 
> Anyway, here's track three.

“Aka-chin’s phone.”

Midorima closes his eyes and sighs, irritated.

“Murasakibara. We’re grown men, the least you could do is answer his phone with some small _semblance_ of professionalism.” His irritation doubles when he hears the sound of chewing.

“I knew it was you, Mido-chin, so why does it matter?”

“Nevertheless—”

“ _Aka-chin_ ,” Midorima would _swear_ he said it again _just_ to piss him off. “Wants to know if you spoke to… Takao-kun.” The pause indicates he read his name, probably from a memo. He rolls his eyes but moves on.

“Yes, I was able to speak with him. He’s agreed to the live-in program. We’ll be starting tomorrow.”

“Hm, that’s good.” More munching sounds. “Did he complain about it?”

“...No.” Midorima’s thoughts return to how easily the musician had accepted this mandate. “Actually, he was surprisingly… accepting of the situation. Resigned. Is Akashi there?”

“Nope, Aka-chin’s in a meeting.”

“And he left his phone with you?”

There is no reply but Midorima can visualize the shrug. Seriously, Murasakibara… He sighs again, deciding he might as well just discuss what’s been bothering him with who he currently has on the phone.

“I suppose I’ll ask you to take this message then… I just don’t… I don’t feel confident this method will work with Takao Kazunari.”

“Hm? Why not?”

“After seeing the state of things, both him and his home… I’m unsure. He seems to be _very_ deep in a creative rut. Furthermore, he’s in a relationship and my moving in might compli—”

“Mido-chin, stop whining. Aka-chin would just tell you to do it anyway.”

Midorima purses his lips, _supremely_ annoyed at having just been chastised by the label’s resident man-child. “I am _not_ whining, I a m simply pointing out that the artist seems to be struggling through something _personal_ at the moment—”

“The live-in thing was made for artists with personal problems, Mido-chin. You _are_ whining.” A loud yawn. “You just started at Teikou, you can’t give up on your first big project this soon. Or… I guess you can but Aka-chin will be mad.”

“I—F-fine. Enough. And do you _seriously_ lack the common decency to refrain from _yawning_ on the telephone!?”

“Do you have anything else to report?”

Midorima leans back in his office chair and squeezes the bridge of his nose. He still has several contract agreements to look over before the work day is over and he’ll certainly have plenty more to report in the coming days. That and expecting a fruitful conversation from Murasakibara is completely pointless. He turns slightly to face the window.

“No. That is all.”

 

♪

 

Midorima isn’t looking forward to this. Dread would be the appropriate word to describe the general mood that takes him when he leaves his posh uptown apartment. He’d spent last night absolutely pampering himself with all of his amenities, trying to soak in every last bit of cleanliness and order in the hopes that the comfort would follow him into Takao Kazunari’s apartment for at least a day or two. But no. As he approaches the door, a small suitcase in tow, his heart sinks into his stomach.

This is going to be awful.

He still hasn’t gotten a full read on Takao Kazunari’s personality yet, but even if he turns out to be the most pleasant person on the planet, it won’t change the fact that he lives in filthy circumstances—circumstances that he is now being forced to share with him.

He knocks on the door and waits. Similar to the day before, no one answers. He knocks again and waits. Nothing. Sighing, he pulls out his phone with the intention of calling as many times as it takes to, undoubtedly, wake Takao Kazunari up. It’s nearly 11 AM, he really should be awake by now, lazy artist or no. As he scrolls through his contacts, he knocks again, harder this time—and the door opens.

Well, really, it nudges open. Shintarou pauses for a second, taken by surprise. When he reaches for and turns the doorknob, he discovers that not only is it unlocked, it was never completely closed in the first place. Was that on purpose or…? He pushes the door open the rest of the way, knocking a few times to announce his entering as he does.

There’s still no answer.

...And the place is _just_ as filthy as it was yesterday. He didn’t even _try_ to clean up! And does it actually looks worse somehow?!

Midorima’s nose scrunches in disgust as he cautiously steps around the trash scattered around the floor. At least the smell isn’t as stagnant as it was yesterday—he must have opened up a window at some point. But… now that he really pays attention to the state of things, the living room doesn’t just look messier, it looks… a little trashed. The coffee table is flipped over onto its side, the stuffed ashtray he’d noticed the day before broken on the floor and its contents strewn everywhere. A poster on one of the walls is torn nearly down the center. It’s only two details but…

Did someone break in? Is Takao alright? Are… are they still here? Is that why the door was open?

Midorima lets go of his suitcase and scans the apartment, his muscles tensed and his ears straining to hear any signs of life. Then he does hear something.

 

Voices.

 

Maybe it isn’t the smartest of ideas to _approach_ these potential vandals but, for the most part, Midorima can take care of himself. Even if these people have weapons, he might be able to dissuade them from becoming violent by offering them money or his watch—whatever it is that hoodlums break into people’s homes in search of. Takao, though… he has a strong feeling that guy is a lot less capable of defending himself. And sure enough, as he approaches the bedroom, its door slightly ajar, he hears Takao’s voice in distress.

“A-ah! _Kei!_ ”

Midorima tenses up even more and he prepares to swing the door open until he hears the rest of it.

“What?”

“How many times do I have to… tell you… th-that _fucking hurts!_ ”

A disgruntled sigh. “Man, whatever, Kazu, you think everything hurts...”

“Just don’t do that… mm… fuck...”

 

Oh.

 

Midorima flushes red and immediately backtracks.

 

_And they really just left the front door openwhile they’re doing… **that?!**_

 

He immediately regrets that he worried after Takao Kazunari’s well-being for even half a second. And really, sex at this hour?? After Midorima had even given him the courtesy of texting him the time he’d arrive??

He leaves the apartment with his suitcase, planning on returning in two hours. That should hopefully be _more than_ ample time for Takao to finish his… _activities_ and get himself decent. Maybe even read the message he sent last night, for god’s sake.

And he makes sure to lock the door behind him.

 

♪

 

Kei _never_ fucking listens. He doesn’t listen when Takao tells him about his day (though he doesn’t do much, so maybe he gets a pass for that), he doesn’t listen when t hey fight, and he sure as _hell_ doesn’t listen in bed.

“Why are you going soft?” Kei asks, hunched over him. He says it like it’s his _own_ fault. When Kazunari doesn’t answer, he says, “Stop thinking so much.”

Credit where it’s due, he is definitely deep in thought. But his dive in arousal has a lot less to do with his mind wandering and much more to do with Kei’s utter lack of listening skills and penchant for thrusting at _super_ painful angles.

“You’re not even looking at me.”

Kazunari snaps out of it, realizing that Kei’s stopped moving entirely. He turns his face to Kei again.

“Sorry.”

“It’s always like this now.”

Takao fights hard to keep the irritation he feels bubbling up from showing on his face.

“Like what?”

“You just lie there, fuckin’ soft the whole time. It’s a complete turn-off.”

Kazunari can’t help but express his disdain now. He rolls his eyes, in that quick, subtle way that Kei _just_ started picking up on and _hates._ What exactly did he expect? That he’d be in the mood to fuck after a night of arguing? He fucking _flipped the table over—_ broke his only decent ashtray, too, the dick.

“I don’t know why you care if I’m hard or not, Kei,” he replies, readjusting himself so the pillow under his hips is a little less awkward.

“Of course I care—there’s nothing stimulating about fucking a corpse.”

“Corpses don’t moan.” _A zombie might, though_ , he quips internally, making sure to keep his personal amusement hidden.

“Neither do you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Well, you barely do,” Kei mutters to himself, starting to move his hips again. Kazunari, thoroughly annoyed and now officially out of the mood, moans. The first few moans are soft and sultry, successfully eliciting a heated grunt from his boyfriend. He quickly turns that moaning into a series of increasingly higher-pitched, drawn out ones—totally excessive, completely mismatched for the pace they are at, and as fake as he can manage. And it very clearly has the desired effect—Kei’s face twists in anger.

And Kazunari can’t help but smirk at that.

“What? I thought you wanted—”

Kei pulls out, turns him over, and twists his arm behind his back _hard._ Kazunari immediately shuts up and his body stiffens, then writhes tightly in pain, further intensifying the stress on his shoulder.

“ _Kei!_ ” he yells, partly in anger but mostly in pain. “ _K-Kei! Stop!!_

It’s then that his boyfriend sinks back into him at another of those painful angles he’s learned. He pushes deep, pulling on his arm harder, causing Kazunari to cry out.

“ _F-fuck! Kei, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Let go, let go letgo!!_ ”

Kei pulls Kazunari up to his knees, cruelly pushing into him and twisting his arm even more. He uses his other hand to pull his head back by the hair so their eyes meet.

“Moan for me right or I’ll make you _scream._ ”

He then pushes Takao back down into the sheets and begins moving again, this time at a punishing pace. Like his little show of dominance managed to get him ‘stimulated’ again. Kazunari has somehow managed to tear up without crying outright during the seconds that Kei had been close to what _felt_ like dislocating his shoulder. He isn’t interested in being punished for real, so even though he’s now totally soft, even though he’s breaking into a cold sweat, even though this entire act has gone from merely unpleasant to actually nauseating…

He moans.

The look in Kei’s eye told him all he needs to know: he meant it when he said he’d make him scream.

 

♪

 

Takao stands outside of his apartment, leaning against the railing, blankly staring down at the parking lot, smoking a cigarette. He’s cold, just wearing an old, stretched out t-shirt and boxers, but he’s in too much of a trance to head back inside yet. Much too deep in thought. Trying to figure out what the hell to do about Kei. The cigarette he’s on kicks and he sucks his teeth, annoyed with the struggle that’s about to follow. The bruise forming on his right shoulder hurts as bad as it looks and he’s forced to use his left hand to pick out and light the next cigarette. His right arm just lies at his side, aching, limp, and useless, while the rest of him shakes, either trembling from the stress or shivering from the cold. Midway through this second smoke, he’s made up his mind.

He needs to get rid of Kei.

_If I dump him, he’ll definitely try to make me take him back. If I don’t would he… I mean, he gets physical sometimes, especially lately, but would he do something crazy? I don’t… I don’t think so… He’s not as bad as Ryu was… I don’t think I’d have to worry about him stalking either… Would he hit me…? He’s grabbed... blocked the door before, too, but I don’t think he’d hit… Timing, then, timing is important… Have to make sure he’s having a good week…_

His knee bounces up and down as he continues formulating exit strategies for his relationship and he notices a car pull into the parking lot. It’s black and looks expensive, way too expensive to belong to someone who lives here. His mild curiosity is sated when the driver exits the car and he recognizes him.

_What’s-his-name from the label. So I guess this bullshit starts today. Shit, I should have tried to clean a little ._

And then a more pressing realization dawns on him. The color drains from Kazunari’s face and he feels even chillier. His heart speeds up a bit and he realizes… he’s _scared._

_Is Kei gonna think I’m cheating on him with this guy?_

_If he does… if he makes that assumption, he really **might** hit me. _

_...He’s already gotten violent twice before today._

Takao sniffles, his nose running a bit from being out in the cold for long, and lowers his head, forehead pressing against the cold metal railing. He hates thinking about this shit but he has to. His mind races with how badly things could escalate if he tries to break up and Kei suspects he’s cheating. It could go much further than a flipped table and a sore shoulder if he thinks he’s been unfaithful. And Kei is a lot of shitty things, but he isn’t a cheater—so it’s not like Kazunari could flip things on him and accuse him right back. Could he convince him he isn’t fucking the label guy? How would he even do that when Kei barely listens as it is—

“What are you doing outside with no...”

The label guy’s baritone manages to take Kazunari by surprise and he jumps at the sound, surprised. He’d been so lost in thought, he’d forgotten to expect him coming up the stairs any moment now. Once he looks back at him, though, he sees the guy’s eyes drawn to his arm—specifically, to the awful, ugly bruise that’s formed over his shoulder. Kazunari immediately moves to readjust his baggy shirt so that it covers it back up again.

“Is that—”

“It’s nothing,” Takao retorts without so much as a flinch. He takes a fast, final drag from his cigarette before tossing it over the railing and into the parking lot below. “And I was just about to go back inside.”

 

♪

 

Takao Kazunari seems to have injured his shoulder somehow.

The bruise Midorima had managed to catch a glimpse of when he’d run into him outside had looked pretty terrible, but he hadn’t been alarmed at the mere sight of it. There are people who just bruise easily or dramatically—he would know, he’s one of them. But judging from the way Takao has been keeping from using his right arm to do anything at all since they entered the apartment, and judging from the slight wince he’d seen him exhibit when he _did_ try to use his right hand to close the door behind them… he’s definitely done something to it.

“You locked the door on your way out,” Takao says.

Midorima’s surprised by that statement. His attention is temporarily averted from the mess at his feet and he stares at his new roommate. Takao is in the kitchen, digging through the refrigerator.

“...Yes, I did. You knew I was here earlier?”

“Thought I heard someone walking around.”

He remembers what he’d almost interrupted and fights back an embarrassed blush. Still, the embarrassment reveals itself in a blurted out, “Sorry.”

“For what?” Takao’s voice is flat and he’s closed the fridge, but still faces away from him. He’s putting something in the microwave.

And that was a good question. What was he apologizing for?

“...Nothing. Let’s get started for today.”

That catches Takao’s attention, a tiny bit of curiosity leaking into his voice. “Started? With what?”

Teikou Records’ bizarre live-in program has a general guideline for the visiting employee to follow. And the first stage of that guideline is observation. Midorima explains this as Takao moves around the small kitchen, whatever he’s making apparently requiring a few more steps beyond microwave heating. When he’s done, he emerges from the kitchen and plops down on the couch with such apathetic force, Midorima can swear he sees crumbs pop into the air and settle back down.

Just one of many reasons he’s choosing to sit at the tiny dining table instead. It looks like it’s never used so it’s arguably one of the cleaner surfaces in the apartment—whatever that means in a hovel like this one.

Another consequence of Takao’s falling into the couch is that his shirt shifts again, the loose collar shifting to expose his bruised right shoulder again. The apartment really is quite small and Midorima can get a good look at it even from where he’s sitting. And… huh.

“What did you do to your arm?”

“Hm?”

Unfortunately, while Midorima _is_ trying to check on his wellbeing, it’s then that he accidentally rests his hand on a _sticky spot on the table_ and he ends up scowling when Takao looks back at him. Takao spends a quick second on his face before turning away and using his left arm to extend the remote and turn on the TV.

“I already told you it’s nothing,” he answers. There’s no hostility to his voice, no defensiveness either. But he covers his shoulder back up again, anyway, and it all makes Shintarou feel…

Uneasy.

 

♪

 

This guy is _nosy._

And maybe Takao should have expected that? He is, after all, going to be living with him from now until he finally forces some sellable music out of himself—it’s probably his job to be nosy. Fuck, he hadn’t thought about that.

Maybe he should have pushed back a bit more.

The second time Takao rebuffs his attempt to talk about the bruise, the guy, thankfully, leaves it alone. He’d said something about ‘getting started’ or whatever, but soon enough hours have passed and neither of them have done anything at all.

Takao eats his late breakfast, leftovers from last night’s dinner. He watches television as he eats. He finishes eating and pushes the take-out container and plate away from him on the coffee table. He lights his third smoke of the day. Curses to himself when he reaches for the ashtray only to remember that it’s lying in pieces over by the TV. So he says, “Fuck it,” and uses the takeout container to dump his cigarette ashes—it’ll do for now.

And… he just goes about his normal life. More smoking, more television. Occasional bathroom breaks. Before he knows it, hours have passed, it’s getting dark out, and he’s getting even colder than he’s already been.

 

“If you’re so cold, I don’t understand why you’re laying there in your underwear.”

 

“H-holy _shit!_ ”

 

Takao jumps so hard he swears he felt his heart in his throat for a second! He whips his head to behind the couch and sure enough, the green-haired guy is still sitting there.

“ _Fuck_ , dude, I forgot you were _here._ ”

The record label guy just sighs and adjusts his glasses. Apparently, he’s been keeping himself busy all this time—Takao’s mildly impressed with how he’s transformed his rather diminutive round dining table into a work station of sorts. There’s a laptop, a stack of papers, some folders… Actually, now that he really looks at him, record label guy looks annoyed. But he’s looked like this since the moment he met, so maybe that’s just his resting face?

“Are you planning on doing any writing or composing today.” The tone of the question is flat, like he’s already given up on Takao. Well, that’s fine.

It’s not like he’d be the first to do that.

He turns away, focusing on the TV again. On some game show—he can’t even remember what he’s been watching.

“No.”

What? It’s the truth.

“...Is this what you’ve been doing for the last two months?”

Takao blinks. He thinks about it. Or, he tries to.

 

But he honestly can’t remember a fucking thing about the last two months.

 

It’s all been the same. Eat, sleep, watch TV. He doesn’t even get on the internet anymore—his social media accounts are always awful reminders of what a mess he is, what a complete let-down he’s being to the only people that ever really believed in him—his fans.

Though he hates calling them that; it’s always felt too conceited.

He scoffs to himself. The idea that there are people out there who enjoy what he does, who actually waste their time messaging him and commenting on his crap…

 

“Pretty much.”

He shrugs.

“It’s a rut. Not much I can do.”

 

♪

 

“Aka-chin’s phone.”

Shintarou sighs again but decides to forgo the typical response.

“I need to speak to Akashi.”

“Aka-chin isn’t—”

“ _Murasakibara, I know he’s there now pass him the phone._ ”

He doesn’t _actually_ know Akashi is available—aside from being the president of the record label, the man keeps himself busy with a myriad of other projects. However, there is no way he’s delivering this message through Murasakibara. He needs to speak with Akashi himself.

It’s too important.

Murasakibara makes an annoyed huff of sorts before there’s the muffled sounds of the phone being passed.

“Shintarou. Is everything alright? It usually takes more provocation for you to lose your temper this quickly.”

“Hello, Akashi,” Shintarou responds, choosing to ignore that slight to his character. “I’m calling about Takao Kazunari.”

Just to be safe, Midorima is having this conversation not just outside of the apartment, but inside of his car. The last thing he needs is for the subject of this call to hear what he has to say about him through those paper-thin walls.

“I expected as much. And how is our—how does Ryouta put it? Our fresh-faced newcomer. How is he?”

“That’s exactly what I wished to talk to you about.” Midorima takes a soft breath, knowing what he’s about to say won’t go over very well. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do for him.”

There’s a brief silence before Akashi speaks again.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It’s unfortunate but it’s also reality.” He’s been thinking this over since he first laid eyes on that sad, _sad_ apartment. “I think that whatever the artist is going through might be… it just seems too severe. I fear that my presence would only exacerbate the problems he’s having.”

“Really. And what exactly are these problems?”

 

Oh god, where to begin?

 

“It’s clear he’s suffering from some form of depression. He seems to have no motivation to even _attempt_ to create.”

“I see.”

“Furthermore, he is in a relationship with someone; another man. I worry that my living with him could present problems to their relationship—problems that could worsen the state Takao Kazunari is already in.”

“Hm.” There’s another brief silence. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

So far this is going much better than he’d expected! And since Akashi seems to understand why this project won’t work, he might as well include it all.

“Only that the state his apartment is in is…” He sighs, trying to come up with the perfect words to describe it. “Barely livable.”

“Interesting.” Another pause. “Excuse me, I’m simply making sure I have all of this down. So to recap your grievances… you believe the artist under your supervision, Takao Kazunari, is suffering from severe depression, affecting his motivation and leading to a block in creativity. You also believe that your presence in his home could affect his relationship with his significant other due to possible jealousy. And the home is filthy.”

Relief washes over Shintarou. It’s nice to know that Akashi understood exactly what he meant.

“Yes, those are my concerns.”

“Alright, Shintarou. Duly noted. And, just to be clear, are you calling simply to file these concerns or did you have another purpose in mind?”

“I—”

“Actually, don’t answer that. My answer is the same regardless. I will not be taking you off of this project.”

His stomach sinks.

“Akashi—”

“Shintarou. Listen to me and listen well.”

 

Oh.

 

Midorima’s mouth goes dry.

 

Akashi is angry.

 

“I chose you to supervise Takao Kazunari despite your inexperience in interacting with artists for a reason. Perhaps you view him simply as Ryouta’s pet project, but he is much more than that. The artist under your care is incredibly talented and very marketable—and if Teikou Records can harness his potential properly, he could become invaluable to us. _That_ is why I have given his case to you instead of one of our artist relations employees.

“I am aware of the challenges you face in dealing with Takao Kazunari but I have entrusted him to you specifically because I need him handled by someone who gets results. Not someone who will become his best friend and not someone who will pity him. I plan to make good on my investment. On _both_ of my investments.”

“I… see.”

“However, if you cannot handle this… perhaps Teikou is not the right fit for you after all.”

…

A part of Shintarou, the paranoid part of him that he sometimes has to actively suppress, has suspected that his friend-turned-employer has always resented him, somewhat, for not immediately dropping everything and joining his little record label endeavor when he first announced it like most of their mutual friends had. Since his late arrival, though, he had yet to see any proof of him harboring any such bad blood and so he’d largely forgotten about that conspiracy theory.

Now, though, through the ice in Akashi’s voice and crystal clear choice of words, he can confirm it.

 

‘ _I plan to make good on my investment. On both of my investments.’_

‘ _If you cannot handle this, perhaps Teikou is not the right fit for you after all.’_

 

If you don’t get my album out on time, I’ll fire the both of you.

 

“Shintarou?”

 

“Understood, Akashi. I… I understand.”

 

Something unexpected happens then: Akashi lets out a sigh… of relief? If he’s interpreting it correctly, it’s baffling. It’s almost as if Akashi knows he’s asking a lot of him and he’s relieved Midorima didn’t just quit… either that or it’s relief at Midorima’s show of subordination.

Probably both.

“Then I shall leave it to your capable hands. Please keep me updated on his progress.”

“Of course.”

“Take care, Shintarou.”

Akashi hangs up.

 

And all Shintarou can think about for the rest of the night is how totally, and completely, _fucked_ he is.


	4. track 4.1 - trial; error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter warning: depiction of panic attack**

_'I could kill you right now_

_and no one would care.'_  

 

* * *

 

 **mediamonstarr  
** this is definitely his best cover!!

 **faruteru**  
       um this isn't a cover, he stopped doing those a while ago

 **thedevilTalen  
       ** when the song's so good ppl think its a cover lol

 

 

* * *

Kazunari wakes up feeling like garbage. More so than usual, anyway. The first coherent thought out of him when he opens his bleary eyes to another shit day is:

_Really glad I don’t remember it._

It’s a welcome blessing when he has a nightmare. The memories of those tend to fade quickly and easily enough compared to the night terrors, the dreams that feel so real he wakes up in fight or flight mode, sometimes even mid-punch or kick. The memory is already fading—really, he can only tell that it was a bad dream because his sheets are still clinging to his skin a little, slightly damp. It looks like morning… which means he didn’t sleep for more than four hours or so. That probably explains the general sense of uneasiness, though—but he’ll just shake that off in the next hour.

It’s a chore to drag himself out of bed but he knows he won’t be able to fall back asleep; not with the sun peeking through the cracks in his blinds and the sounds of the rest of his complex getting up for work.

Work...

_Maybe I should actually try to write something today._

The moment he thinks it, he laughs to himself—a wry, defeated scoff.

_Yeah, and maybe I’ll clean the kitchen, too._

Kazunari learned long ago that there is little point in trying to convince himself he's going to get his shit together. Sure, a part of him acknowledges that it’s still technically possible... at least for as long as he hasn't permanently fused with the couch or his bed yet. When the time finally arrives for him to become one with his surroundings, for the swamp to finally swallow him whole, he really hopes it happens in his bed.

Much more private.

The sleep is finally gone from his eyes, his vision un-blurring to reveal the chaos and grime of his bedroom. Case and point: if he were ever going to get his shit together, he would have done it by now.

Then he thinks of the last time his sister came to visit.

 

‘C _ome **on** , Kazu-nii, this place is a mess! No, put the controller down—we’re not touching NBA Live until we tidy this up a little, jeez!_’

 

His chest twinges a bit at the memory. That was... 3 years ago.

_God, it's been that long?_

He grabs the pack of cigs on his nightstand and pops one in his mouth.

_Don’t think about it._

_Just don’t think about it._

♪

Kazunari is halfway through a cigarette, watching his third hour of mindless television, when the unthinkable happens.

 

The screen goes black.

 

“That’s enough television.”

It takes the sound of the remote clacking against the coffee table to snap him out of his daze.

His new roommate darts out of his vision so quickly and with such grace, it’s almost like he’s floating. But, no, he isn’t floating, and Kazunari is confused. Where did he even come from??

“Um, you turned off the TV,” he points out, as if wondering whether it was an accidentally.

The record exec seems to ignore him as he walks away in his suit, his briefcase waiting for him by the front door. The apartment was empty when he started watching cartoons, so did he walk in without Kazunari even noticing? How long has he been in the room??

Kazunari scoffs when he realizes his complaint has just been ignored, a profound sense of irritated disbelief quickly overtaking any surprise he’d felt at this sudden appearance. He can’t be sure if this guy’s joking or serious with the remote thing, but either way he’s not having it. He swipes it back from the table and turns the television back on.

_He's crazy. It’s not like he’s my—_

The exec puts his extraordinarily long legs to use without hesitation, crossing the room again in no time at all. He reaches behind the television and yanks the plug out from the wall.

“ _Hey!_ ” Kazunari actually switches from lying down to sitting up; the incredulity is gone and all that’s left now is annoyance. That annoyance just doubles when the man continues to ignore him and pulls the cord out of the television itself. “Dude, what the _hell?!_ ” Kazunari finds himself wracking his brain for the guy’s name now that it's finally become necessary to address him directly. "It's Midorima, right?"

Midorima barely spares him a glance as he quietly stalks off toward the door again, this time with the television’s power cable in hand.

“This is mine for now. Get some work done.”

Kazunari's eyes widen with understanding. "You can't..." Kazunari turns in the couch, watching him leave. “Wait a second, this is—!”

“The only way to get you to focus, apparently,” Midorima retorts, so smoothly it sounds prepared. He neatly folds the cable into segments before opening his briefcase. “Where do you usually create?”

It’s an odd question and an even odder word choice, and it catches Kazunari off-guard. “I.. on the sofa? I don’t know, on the floor. Here; the living room.”

“Do you need a laptop?”

“No, I usually...” Kazunari sighs, the fight suddenly drained out of him as he recognizes his defeat. He rubs his forehead. “I write things down.” He can feel his shoulder throb in protest at the mere idea of writing today.

Midorima gives a barely perceptible nod, still not even facing Kazunari. Honestly, that’s probably pissing him off more than anything else but he can already predict how complaining about that would just make him seem like a baby—and judging from the way he’s being treated right now, he probably doesn’t need to further convince Midorima of _that_.

“You have my phone number if you need anything,” he says, matter-of-factly. Wait, no. Not quite matter-of-factly because Kazunari can sense a hint of...

_Why the hell is **he** annoyed, I’m the one whose TV just got hijacked!_

Kazunari is still deciding on what he should say in response when Midorima swiftly exits the apartment.

♪

Was procrastinating always this difficult?

 

With the TV on, it’s effortless; Kazunari just lays down and lets the hypnosis begin, only taking breaks for the bathroom and the occasional outdoor smoke. He owns a laptop but, truth be told, he can't remember the last time he even touched the thing. His phone is devoid of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram—basically anything that qualifies as social media. He couldn’t exactly uninstall YouTube, not to mention it’s still convenient for keeping his mind occupied when he’s lying awake in bed, so he’s logged out of it and wiped its cache. He won’t log back in. He will never log back in.

He very literally _dreads_ seeing comments on his old videos. Kazunari’s goal for the past year has just been to stay as far off the grid as possible, as effectively as possible. It helps him avoid the reality of what a huge failure he's become. Right now, though, he’s sitting on the floor, squeezed uncomfortably tight between the coffee table and the couch, staring at an empty page in his songwriting book, thinking about the deadline.

So much for avoiding that train of thought.

Three months.

Twelve songs. Ten at a minimum.

 

_Three months._

_...Twelve songs._

 

In a bid to snap himself out of the panic threatening to rise in his gut, Kazunari goes back a few pages in his notebook, to the drafts for last year’s demo tracks—there were some other aborted ideas that he never bothered recording.

...

...

 _Sheesh, no wonder_ , he realizes. There's a slight increase in his panic now.

_They’re all terrible. What was I thinking?_

He doesn’t even really remember.

He’d had so much time to pull ideas together, access to one of Teikou Records’ studios in the city, the phone number of that publicist, Kise... and instead of doing anything, he just... fermented here. Sat around and kept the shades drawn as summer turned into fall and fall turned into winter. And then November came along and he was spewing out utter horseshit, the pressure mounting until he threatened to break, the pressure to produce something, _anything_ in order to just _barely_ hold onto the possibility being able to do this for a living...

All of his previous notes are uninspired trash.

Really, he should just be grateful Teikou hasn’t given up on him yet. And he _is_ grateful. He is.

Kazunari reads over the half-hearted drafts in his songbook and feels nothing. All he can do is stare at a blank page as he tries to come up with something. Anything at all.

 

The anxiety builds into paralysis.

 

♪

 

It’s early evening when Shintarou returns to the apartment—and while he would never admit it, he can’t lie to himself about the fact that he actually _procrastinated_ at work in order to avoid coming back here. It isn’t just that the apartment is filthy, either—it’s the dark, exhausted atmosphere to the place as a whole that makes staying there truly intolerable. That and his first night sleeping on the pull-out couch had been miserable. Although it is surprisingly plush for such an obviously cheap piece of furniture, that still can’t make up for the facts that Shintarou barely fits on it (and only in one very specific position) and that the weak frame constantly feels like it’s on the verge of snapping under his weight. He can’t even begin to compare this sleeping situation to his bed at home and the moment he makes the mistake of doing so, he groans in discontent.

 

_It’s temporary. And it might even be a test._

 

A test from Akashi... but what sort of a test is it? What is he meant to prove to him?

That he’s actually invested in this job? That he’s dedicated? ...Because neither of those things are true.

And everyone knows it.

As Shintarou trudges his way from the living room to the bathroom, now entertaining the idea of replacing this pull-out with something of his own choosing (and pointedly choosing to ignore the trash _**still** accumulated on the floor_ ), he notices an open notebook on the coffee table Takao is usually stationed at; the page its on is blank, a pen resting on it. Midorima then rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated groan—Takao’s bedroom door is open and he’s not inside.

He’s run off.

God _damn_ it.

 

♪

 

Kazunari is way too broke to do anything when he makes the rare trip outside of his house—being unemployed and living off one record deal paycheck for this long will do that to someone's wallet. So when he does leave the apartment for some fresh air, he usually takes a walk in whatever direction his feet take him, absorbing his surroundings and smoking all the while. It’s what he’s doing now, anyway. That blank page had gotten under his skin to the point where it felt like it was accusing him of something—so he needed a breather, a moment to clear his head.

A _long_ moment. He checks the time.

_I’ve been out for... four hours? Damn, lost track of time. **Damn** , is whats-his-name gonna be back??_

He curses under his breath at this realization, really not looking forward to returning to _that_ if he’s right. He’s pretty sure he left his dumb songbook open on that damn empty page. Already, this live-in arrangement is grating on him. _Why_ didn’t he fight it? Would they would have relented, given him a warning instead? He hadn’t thought at all about what it would be like with someone from the label staying in his living room, not about the logistics, not about Kei’s reaction, not even about his own reaction...

Kazunari’s hoodie falls back as he rakes a hand through his hair, teeth gritted around his cigarette. A stranger walking by him spares a glance at his face and he immediately pulls the hood back up. It’s an immediate reaction, a reflex, one he doesn’t even understand completely. But there’s something about strangers looking at him that he hates. Anyone, really, but with strangers it's the worst. He didn’t used to feel this way, he even used to _like_ being the center of attention, sometimes. But now...

Well, a lot of things are different now.

But he’s been saying that for years, so is it that things are different now, or that they were different back then?

 

Back before he was raped; before his life fell apart.

 

 _Fuck._ This walk did _not_ do what it was supposed to do. He’s back to thinking about writing and now he's even thinking about _that._

_Maybe it’s ‘cause the pressure is on and there's a deadline, like with finals..._

The general mood these days does feel familiar to the mood he'd been in around that time. The anxiety, the tension, the dread of attempting something that he doesn't feel at all prepared to succeed at. The why doesn’t matter, though. And there aren’t enough cigarettes in the world to push it out of his mind once he’s gone there.

Kazunari's feet move faster along the road, past a family exiting some storefront. Where is he? How far from home is he? These are questions he had back then, too, when he first regained consciousness. He wants to shut his eyes so he can focus on the blackness, focus on pushing the ugly away, but he can’t very well do that and walk at the same time. Besides, the black just makes it easier to remember visual things, makes them more vivid, stirs the other senses. Smell: the harsh, penetrating, almost sweet scent of ether. Touch: rough, foreign palms that turn his stomach upside down with repulsion. Taste: hours-old liquor and sweat. If he stops walking right now, they’ll catch up to him.

The memories.

The shame.

The panic.

 

Pretty soon he’s running.

 

♪

 

Today is a new day.

Or so Kazunari tries to convince himself as he sits on the couch, staring holes into the white space of this godforsaken notebook page. Today, his babysitter has decided to work from home—so Kazunari is basically trapped. He _has_ to sit here and try to write _something_.

The nasty glare Midorima gave him when he got back last night made that clear enough.

_It feels like I’m in detention with a particularly mean teacher, what the hell..._

The sound of Midorima’s delicate taps against his keyboard intermittently cuts through the stark silence in the room and Kazunari hasn’t figured out if it’s distracting or calming yet. More than anything, though, it’s a consistent reminder that Midorima _is_ here, in the room with him, despite how completely silent he’s been since they traded ‘good mornings’ hours earlier. He was going to have a hard time writing shit to begin with, but regardless of that—Midorima sitting right behind him, with a clear view of how much or, in his case, how little progress he’s making, towering over him, subtly increasing the tension in the room with his intense quietness...

It’s making it _fucking_ _hard_ to write.

A loud sigh bursts from Kazunari’s lips, like he’d been holding it in for hours. It does nothing to dissipate the anxiety, but at least his body does loosen up a bit. The page isn’t as empty as it was when he started this battle initially, but nearly everything he’s written has been violently crossed out with nothing to replace it. All he has so far are the words ‘trial and error – catch and release??’. For fuck’s sake. This is going nowhere.

 

He needs a break.

 

“So...” Kazunari begins, the hesitance in his voice impossible to hide. He starts drawing tight circles and loops on his paper. “How long have you been working for Teikou?”

Midorima’s typing abruptly stops. There’s a brief moment of silence before it starts again.

“Four months.”

“Oh.”

 _Huh. Well, that’s interesting._ Kazunari turns around to face him.

“Really?”

Midorima doesn’t answer, eyes firmly set on his computer screen. He definitely knows he’s trying to procrastinate.

“Hm...” Kazunari goes on, tapping his pen against the paper while he mulls over what to say to get him talking. He seems icy, but there's got to be something that interests him enough to provoke a reaction. “That’s pretty recent... So, I’ve been signed with Teikou longer than you’ve been working there?” Midorima ignores his question again. “What were you doing before this?”

“Takao.” It comes out as a growl of sorts, overtones of barely suppressed irritation. “ _Work._ ”

Kazunari frowns at the rebuff, then whips his head back around, effectively chastised. He puts his pen to the paper again... and resumes doodling. This time he sketches a city skyline.

After a few minutes of mindless drawing, he pipes up again.

“I mean, you’re gonna be staying with me for three months, it wouldn’t kill us to get to know each other.” After another stretch of stiff silence, he mumbles, “A _little._ ”

The sound of typing comes to another abrupt stop.

“While your point may be valid, I’m not an idiot. You’re looking for a distraction.”

Kazunari groans and slams his pen against the table.

“Okay, YES FINE, I’m looking for a distraction!” he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. Turning around again, he shoots Midorima an accusing glare. “You _took_ my power cord!”

“So that you would focus on your writing,” Midorima replies with a slight edge to his voice. He finally turns his attention from the screen, the look in his eyes equally confrontational.

“Well, it didn’t work,” Kazunari snaps.

“You have to _try_.” Midorima’s eyes narrow.

He just about blows his top.

“I need to—did you just tell me I _need to try??_ ” he sputters, yelling more than just a little. “I _am_ trying! All I _do_ is try! It might not look that way to you but-but you don’t _fucking_ know me!”

 

…And he thought the room was tense _before_.

 

Midorima honestly looks stunned. Still mad, but stunned. And Takao feels the same way—he hadn’t meant to blow up like that and he certainly hadn’t meant to start an argument. He's not usually this quick to shout, but that comment...

It just struck a chord.

Finally, he can’t take the glaring match anymore. Whether it's feeling tired from the sudden outburst or guilt over losing it like that, he doesn't know, but all the fire and resentment just drains from him, almost as quickly as it overtook him. He doesn't have the energy for this anymore; he just wants to move on. Eyes pointedly looking elsewhere, his posture slackens—not in relaxation, but in concession.

“I.. I _am_ trying. I just...” _Am_ _failing. Nothing is working._ “Whatever.” He turns away, frustrated by the weakness in his voice and just damn frustrated in general. “It’s my problem.”

Once again, they settle into a tense silence. This time, he doesn’t even bother to pick up his pen as he stares at the page. This time, the sound of typing happens in uneven bursts, unfocused. Until it stops altogether again.

“I was in medical school before taking up this position.”

Takao stirs in his seat, his attention easily breaking from the paper. There’s a fierce internal debate going on about whether or not to dish out a taste of his own medicine and ignore Midorima’s statement. It’s probably just a sense of curiosity or the desperation to take a break that makes him turn in his seat again.

“Med school? Really?”

“Yes.” Midorima still looks as grave as ever but the vague hostility, the irritation from just a minute ago is no longer there. Instead, there’s mild... hesitation.

Kazunari’s brow quirks. “What made you decide to work in music then?”

 

♪

 

Shintarou pauses. Takao is now giving him his full attention, his body turned completely in his direction with both arms resting on the couch’s back. There’s no way Takao would know it, but he’s inadvertently asked him a highly personal question.

How does he answer this?

While he is obviously worried to some extent about maintaining professionalism, the main reason Shintarou hesitates is that he doesn’t know this man. The few people he is close to in his life know that he’s an intensely private person—he is not the type to ‘bare his soul’ to a stranger. Now...

That being said. 

Even if they have hardly spoken to each other over the course of these first few days  and Takao also seems to be a rather private person, just him being here—amongst the dirt, the debris, the impossible-to-hide chaos...  hasn’t Takao already opened up to him, simply by virtue of being seen like this? Shintarou has the option to hide his personal demons; most people do. But Takao is essentially being forced to share his personal space with a stranger from work, and it’s so obviously an ugly, vulnerable reflection of whatever is going on inside him right now.

There is no doubt he didn't want to be seen this way. 

So Shintarou frowns but decides to relent. Just a bit.

“I didn’t have many options,” he says, eyes drifting back to his screen. His words are vague but true; and the truth still makes him uncomfortable. He finds his fingers drifting to trace along the scar on his left hand. “I had to leave school.”

“Oh.”

Silence overtakes them once more. Shintarou tries to focus in on his work again but finds it difficult with Takao still looking at him, watching. He can’t help wondering if he’s somehow said something wrong... again. Then, as Takao finally turns away, he says,

“That makes total sense, actually.”

 

_I’ll just ignore that._

_…_

_Alright, I have to know._

 

“How so?” Shintarou keeps the question short, consciously keeps his voice from giving his curiosity away, making sure to keep his eyes fixed on his screen. When Takao says nothing at first, he has to debate whether to leave it alone or risk repeating himself.

“...Well, no offense but.. you don’t really seem passionate about music. Or this. Any of this.”

Shintarou rolls his eyes. “Passion isn’t a requirement to do this job.” _And it’s hardly abnormal that I’m not ‘passionate’ about being sequestered here for the next three months of my life._

Then again, Shintarou doesn't technically meet any of the requirements for this job in the first place.

“I mean...  _isn’t it_ , though? Plus, it's obvious," Takao mumbles. “That you don’t like your job, I mean.”

This does catch Shintarou off-guard, his typing gradually slowing down until it comes to a full stop. He opens his mouth to say something, though he isn’t quite sure what, but then freezes when his ears pick up the sound of a pen scratching away at paper.

He glances over, down at Takao’s notebook, wholly expecting a continuation of whatever silly thing he’s doodling now but is pleasantly shocked when it’s not that.

 

It’s words. He’s _writing._

 

Albeit, the going is slow and hesitant—he can tell Takao is still struggling, whatever he’s writing is likely just brainstorming.

But it’s _something_.

As cliché as it may be, it can best be described as music to his ears.

When the writing continues uninterrupted for ten minutes, Shintarou feels hopeful. When he actually hears the sound of a _page turning_ , he’s damn _relieved._ He even starts to think that maybe—just maybe—he will actually sleep somewhat soundly tonight.

 

Then he remembers his shoddy sleeping conditions and lowers his expectations accordingly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking back on the spacing for the first chapter is so personally upsetting, I'm so sorry about that mess. It's nearly impossible to read, it'll be fixed soon enough. Probably need to cut down on all my _italicizing_ , as well.
> 
> This chapter is actually longer than just this but I never wanted the chapters of this story to be long this early on, so I've decided to split it up into two parts. And although the chapters are named after Takao's album tracklist right now, the story doesn't end after Track 12, no worries. Honestly, I wish it did, I have _so many other fics I'm behind on ~~*nervous sweats* haha it'll be fine probably~~_
> 
> God, I truly apologize for not being as detail-oriented as this story deserves. I am just so terrible at describing _physical_ things (settings, clothes, etc). If anyone hast the time and desire to beta my work to help me with descriptions, I would love you forever and offer you a salary of... gratitude. A salary consisting of gratitude. And friendship. ~~*COUGH*I'm looking at you[Jmetropolis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmetropolis/pseuds/Jmetropolis) ahaha jk jk *sobbing*~~ But seriously, if you're looking for fic with a seamless mix of both relatable emotion and gorgeous setting, J is _incredible_ at it. I need to take lessons lol.


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